The Forged Masterpiece

Chapter 3 The Trap at the Auction

The clandestine auction hall smelled of cigars, old velvet, and too many people in one sealed room. I knew every corner of it. Fortunes changed hands there under the excuse of art appreciation. That night, every chair faced the *'Midnight Rose'* on the auction block.

From the raised dais assigned to the final authenticator, I watched the numbers climb.

"Fifteen million," the auctioneer called.

"Sixteen!" came a shout from a Russian oligarch.

Julian stood beside the stage, playing the gracious host. Each new bid widened his grin.

*Another two bids, and it's done. They'll find the tip in her office safe. By sunrise, she’ll be in a federal holding cell, and I'll be in control.*

Beside him, Chloe could barely keep still. *I'll redecorate the penthouse first. Get rid of all her cold, minimalist junk. I need more color. More life.*

"Eighteen million!"

Don Corsini had made the bid. The broad man in the front row ran the Corsican syndicate and had old scars across most of his face. Julian had spent months steering him toward this one lot. Cheating him carried a price Julian had chosen to ignore.

"Going once." The auctioneer scanned the room. "Going twice."

But before the word "sold" could leave his lips, I moved.

A murmur followed me down the steps to the stage. Final verification belonged to the Curator alone. I picked up the heavy seal of authenticity and inspected the certificate.

Julian’s smile faltered. *'What is she doing? This wasn't part of the plan! Stick to the script, you b***h!'*

Without looking at him or Chloe, I held the seal over the certificate. Then I set it on the table beside the document, untouched.

I reached inside my jacket and took out a slim silver instrument, a multi-spectrum ultraviolet light made to look like a pen.

Chairs creaked as the bidders leaned forward.

I switched it on and moved the violet beam across the lower right corner of the canvas. A thin, crooked signature surfaced beneath the paint, invisible under ordinary light.

"Le Spectre," I said into the microphone. "The Ghost. The most gifted forger in the last fifty years. This work is exquisite. It is also a forgery."

The room broke into shouts.

"A fake?" Don Corsini roared, surging to his feet. "You tried to sell me a fake?"

Julian went white. "No! It's a lie! She's lying!" His gaze darted across the room and landed on the wheelchair in the rear. "It was him! Victor! The cripple must have switched them! He was in the restoration room with her!"

Before he finished, I turned toward the digital screen behind the auction block.

"Was he?" I asked calmly, turning to the massive digital screen behind the auction block. I tapped a command into my watch. "Or was the switch authorized by someone else?"

A document filled the screen: the secret authorization that had moved the *'Midnight Rose'* from the family's primary vault to the gallery. One handwritten signature sat at the bottom.

Julian Falcone.

Julian stared at his own name and made a small choking sound.

"As sole Curator, I must sign off on any transaction of this size. Mr. Falcone bypassed that rule. Under the network charter, every asset and account tied to his signature is frozen, effective immediately, pending a full audit."

His mouth opened. Every offshore account and line of credit he depended on had closed at once.

Before he could even scream, two of Don Corsini’s men were on him. They grabbed him by the arms, his bespoke suit ripping at the shoulder.

"Elena!" he shouted as they dragged him away. "Please! We're husband and wife! You can't do this!"

I turned my back on him. I didn't slow my pace as I walked off the stage, the sound of his desperate pleas swallowed by the uproar of the crowd.

The seal remained on the table, exactly where I had left it.